by Cate Tiernan
But here it was cool and dimly lit by the streetlight. There was no one else, and only we could hear the music.
“This is a lot easier with just one other person,” I said, revolving slowly in a circle around him, our hands raised, my left palm to his. “I could never keep it all straight.”
He smiled, and as I held pretend skirts out of the way, he revolved around me, first facing me, then with his back to me, as we rose on our toes, up and down.
I let out a deep breath. “You might as well know. I’m the worst dancer. They used to call me ‘the pretty one, who dances like a bear.’ ”
He laughed then, forgetting to hum. “That was you?”
My mouth opened. “Oh, come on! I wasn’t that famous. Infamous.”
This new Reyn teased, “You’ll never know.”
My feet felt lighter, along with my mood. We held hands and took rhythmic steps in a line, one two, one two.
A motion out of the corner of my eye revealed Joshua standing silently in the doorway, holding his leather tool belt, watching us.
Reyn’s muscles instantly tightened in a line from his fingertips up his arm, making his whole body rigid.
Though self-conscious, I wanted to keep moving; I was finally starting to enjoy something that had always been a trial for me.
Wordlessly Joshua walked toward us. Reyn’s tension was like a newly strung bow. To my shock and then delight, Joshua stopped on my other side and after a moment matched his steps with ours. He held out his fist, and I lightly draped my hand on it the way I used to, so long ago, and with men not one-hundredth as attractive or interesting as these two.
There—on the linoleum floor of the darkened, empty shop—the three of us moved in patterns we’d learned hundreds of years ago in different countries. We’d been different people with different names and different lives. Now we were, today, humming an old minuet and dancing, two steps forward, two steps back, a step to the left, and a turn.
It was really quite delightful.
CHAPTER 18
As the days passed, River was still subdued, smiling less easily, looking pensive as she moved about the farm. I continued to study most mornings, but also escaped out to my shops every day. The mood there was brisk and purposeful, and it was gratifying to see rooms finished and freshly painted, seeming full of potential.
No one heard or saw any ghost. Reyn and Joshua both came to work, but the momentary truce of our shared dance faded rapidly. Once again it was like having two angry lions circling each other, leaving me wondering which one would rip out whose throat first.
In between the exhausting and cramp-inducing chore of signing away gobs of money, I had some downtime to read and brush up on all the spells that I had been ignoring for the past, oh, four hundred years or so.
One day I was nodding off over a thick tome with the alluring title of Various Worts of the Americas when I blinked and there stood a little group of raggedy people, right in front of my desk. Another couple blinks and my eyes focused enough to see that it was Dray; with her was a hard-looking woman with bleached-blond hair and a face that looked like she had started smoking too young and hadn’t quit yet: Luisa Grace, an oddly pretty name that didn’t seem to fit her. The guy was tall, pale, skinny, and unhealthy or unfortunate enough to have awful acne.
I’d talked to Luisa Grace before, something about crafts?—but what was her connection with these two? If these motley three wanted to rent an apartment together, I was going to be in an awkward position.
“Hey,” said Dray.
“Hey,” I said cautiously.
“You know Luisa,” said Dray, pointing at the woman. “And Skunk.” The guy.
“Um, hi,” I said. Skunk? Really? I realized that all of them were holding bags or boxes, and my heart sank. I mean, no way was I—
“Show ’er,” Dray directed, and Luisa Grace opened her white garbage bag… and pulled out a stuffed patchwork teddy bear.
“Like I tol’ you before, I make these bears,” said Luisa, sitting it on my card table. “Out of old bedspreads. Like this.” She pulled out three more; one made out of white cotton chenille, one out of blue seersucker, and another patchwork one, this one in pastels.
They were so cute. I picked one up, saw the neat, precise stitching; the pert, round ears.
“This is awesome,” I said.
“I sell ’em at craft fairs,” said Luisa. “And like at the farmers’ market. They go for anywhere between sixty-five dollars and like two-twenty or so, depending on what they’re made of.”
“Whoa,” I said, touching its button nose.
“I sold over a hundred and fifty of them in the last six months.”
“Wow,” I said.
“I make ’em, and my kids stuff ’em for me,” said Luisa.
“Cool.”
“Skunk,” said Dray, and nudged the guy. He set his beat-up cardboard box on my desk and started pulling out T-shirts.
“I make screens,” he muttered, dropping a pile of shirts on the table.
“He means he silk-screens T-shirts and stuff,” Dray said.
I picked up the T-shirts one by one. They were covered with skulls, bomber planes, angry slogans, pictures of brass knuckles, etc.
“I like this one,” I said, holding up one with red bomber planes dropping green bombs onto some dinosaurs.
Skunk nodded. “That one’s Christmassy.”
Dray was holding a small box that had once contained twenty-four cans of cat food. She opened it up and pulled out handmade jewelry: bracelets of telephone wire woven in complicated patterns, a necklace with links that were strips of an aluminum can rolled up like beads, another necklace with a pendant that was a hunk of frosted glass surrounded by copper wire.
“Did you make this stuff?” I asked her, and she nodded diffidently.
“It keeps me off the streets.” She sounded bored.
“Like I said, I want to rent the shop with the blue front,” Luisa confirmed. “To sell my bears in. And for other people who want to sell their stuff. Handmade crafts. These guys, and I got a friend who makes little jackets for wine bottles. So cute.”
We “negotiated” the lease for a while, which means Luisa tried to bleed me dry, but finally she and I agreed on rent and signed the papers, and I had my second shop tenant. I didn’t know how long Dray would continue to make jewelry, but I actually really liked her stuff and told her to save one of the bracelets for me to buy when they opened.
The consignment-shop lady had fallen through, but the third shop got rented the next day by a woman whose husband repaired guitars and violins—she wanted all his crap out of the house. But she also did simple tailoring, like cuffs and hems, and she was going to set up her sewing machine in one corner, and they would be there together.
Three new businesses on Main Street in this dinky town. Already more people were walking by, coming over to check it out after shopping at Pitson’s or Early’s. Ray and Tim were almost ready to open their coffee shop—You’re Grounded—and the city health inspector was due this week to certify them.
Brynne now came to the shops every day, in her oldest overalls, with a bright cloth around her bouncing corkscrew curls. She’d joined a painting crew. If she didn’t manage to actually be in the same room or apartment as Joshua, she was at least nearby.
One day she, Meriwether, and I were eating lunch together, laughing at something, and it hit me: We probably looked like three normal teenage girls, sharing lunch. Like regular friends. It was an interesting feeling. So weirdly everyday.
Of course, two of us were immortals who were trying to work through dark pasts. But other than that, we could just be three teenagers bonding.
And yet through all of it, I was eternally aware that Innocencio was still nowhere to be found.
But March went on without any more weird or upsetting things happening. Spring was definitely trying to get its act together; the woods were even more dotted with the bright yellow blooms of forsythia, fuzzy paws of
pussy willows, and the deeper reddish yellow of witch hazel—bright pockets of color that made me ache for warmer days and long hours of sunlight.
Ottavio finally came back, unfortunately. Without him around, the tension in the house had been visibly lessened—or at least much of the tension: We still had Reyn and Joshua snarling at each other, and Daniel irritating all of us by offering savvy business tips and telling stories about the various fortunes he’d made. If I were River, I’d tell him to shut the hell up, but who knows? Maybe she still felt guilty for plotting to kill him a thousand years ago.
When I came downstairs one morning to find Ottavio setting the dining table, my stomach clenched. He looked up, his black shark eyes seeming to pierce right through me. I gave him a big, sunny smile and sat down on a bench.
“Ottavio!” Roberto kissed his older brother on both cheeks as Rachel set a tureen of oatmeal on the sideboard.
With a sinking heart I realized that breakfast would be a recap of everything he’d found out, which would sound like, The world is imploding, and it’s Nastasya’s fault.
With seventeen of us, the table was crowded and we were all squished in together. Showing admirable tenacity, Brynne had situated herself next to Joshua, casually brushing against him every time she reached for something. She leaned forward, and Joshua’s gaze focused on her streaky caramel-colored hair, three inches from his face. He blinked a couple times, and it was right then that I felt he finally got stung by the Brynne seductive charm.
“Though the place called Miss Edna’s seems to no longer exist,” Ottavio intoned, “I did find one or two people who had heard of it. They were reluctant to discuss any of it. They seemed nervous, even scared, and refused to say much.”
I’m sure it had nothing to do with his forbidding demeanor. Glumly I speared a breakfast sausage and put it on my plate.
“I know you talked to Tallis. Did you find Tante Marie?” River said, asking after some of their old immortal friends.
“I spoke to her—she’s been hearing disturbing rumors about Terävä magick being made, big magick, dangerous. She was in England to check on her family.” Ottavio angrily sprinkled salt on his oatmeal the old-fashioned way.
“What kind of big, dangerous magick?” Daisuke asked.
Ottavio looked frustrated. “No one seems to know. The closest analogy I can draw is that it’s like someone stockpiling weapons. Someone, or a group of someones, seems to be gathering power through dark means. But I can’t get any information about who or why. And you heard about Simon?” This was directed at River.
She nodded. “Simon is a friend of ours in Canada,” she explained to us. “He’s not from one of the houses, but he’s very old and quite powerful. He was attacked but managed to fight off his attackers.”
“Did he know them?” Rachel asked.
River shook her head, looking concerned. “He said he couldn’t even tell that they were human.”
“Wait—couldn’t tell that they were human?” I asked. “I mean, what are our options? They had to be immortals—humans. It’s not like he was attacked by yetis or aliens. Right?” Or ghosts.
A glance passed between River and Ottavio, and I thought, Oh my God, there are aliens, and no one’s ever told me. Maybe we’re aliens. Maybe all immortals are—
“Not necessarily human,” Ottavio said reluctantly.
“What?” Brynne looked startled.
“There are things worse than human,” Joshua said, looking at his plate.
“Okay, you are freaking me out,” said Brynne, putting down her fork and crossing her arms.
“Not everyone believes in them,” River said a bit impatiently.
“Evil spirits,” Roberto said, not sounding worried. He glopped more oatmeal into his bowl and reached for the butter and salt. “Things neither dead nor alive. There have always been fairy stories about evil people hooking up with them, getting them to do their bidding. Or the evil spirits overwhelming their human partners.”
“Those things?” Brynne said. “Are you saying they’re real?”
River made an impatient gesture with her hand, as if she wished Ottavio hadn’t said anything. She was probably used to feeling that way.
“They’re not real,” said Solis firmly. “No one’s ever said they were real.”
River looked at him. “I’ve never known anyone who’s thought they were real.”
We all recognized that this was not a strict denial of their existence.
“Our danger comes from real people,” said Daniel.
“I agree,” said Asher. “We don’t have to attribute these dark works to unknown beings. This is a person, or people, who are human enough to be greedy and power hungry.”
Just then the door to the kitchen swung inward. We all looked up in surprise to see Anne standing there, pale and upset. I hadn’t even realized she wasn’t at breakfast.
“Every plant we set out is dead,” she said simply. “Not from frost. Everything in the greenhouse, all my seedlings. All of the early peas and cabbages in the cold frames. Even the seeds I’d started in peat trays in the big barn.”
“Why? What happened?” Lorenz asked.
“That’s not all,” said Anne, not answering his question. “In the root cellar—we have bushels of carrots, turnips, potatoes. All the things we store down there all winter. We’re down to the last of them, fortunately—because what’s left down there is rotten, full of worms.”
“I got potatoes last night,” Jess said in his scratchy voice. “They were fine.”
“And I got butternut squash from there a few days ago,” said Anne. “It was all fine then. This has happened in the last day.”
“But our protection spell,” I said. “That really powerful protection spell. How could anything get through?” Oh. Because maybe I had flawed it, weakened it.
“I don’t think it could,” said Asher. “Maybe this was set in motion a while ago. Before the spell.”
“The spell wouldn’t wipe it out?” Amy asked.
“It might not,” River admitted, looking horrified. “The spell as we crafted it was about warding off evil, protecting each and every thing from spells, starting the second after we finished it. Somehow, unbelievably, I didn’t think to put in anything retroactive. So if our seeds and seedlings had been spelled, our circle probably wouldn’t have counteracted it.”
Well, now I felt like going back to bed and staying there. For weeks.
As it turned out, even bed was not the haven of solace and warmth that one would hope. That night we were awakened by flashing lights, sirens, and a bullhorn telling us to all come outside, slowly and with our hands up. (Yes, they really say that.)
I was sitting in bed, groggily wondering what the hell was going on, when Reyn crashed through my door, his eyes wild.
“What’s wrong?” I said, suddenly extremely awake. I scrambled for my jeans, pulling them up over the long johns I slept in.
“You’re okay,” he muttered, pushing a hand through hair that was already sticking up.
Outside the sirens screamed, and I wondered if all the poor farm animals were freaking out.
“What’s going on?” I repeated. I pushed my feet into my clogs as fellow Riverites streamed past my door toward the stairs. Then we were out in the hall, hurrying downstairs as someone on a bullhorn kept ordering us to come out. It was like being in World War II again, and I could feel how tense and anxious we all were.
“Is it a fire?” Anne asked, sniffing the air.
River opened the front door slowly. Looking past her, I saw six or seven squad cars had driven up onto the grass, close to the house. Each had an armed policeman pointing a rifle at us.
Shading her eyes against the spotlight, River walked out onto the porch. We all followed her, starting to go down the stairs until one cop shouted at us to stop right there.
“Who runs this place?” A man not in uniform stepped forward. He was wearing a bulletproof vest under his open jacket.
“I d
o,” said River calmly. “My name is River Bennington.”
The man consulted a clipboard and spoke to a woman who had gotten out of an unmarked car.
“Who else lives here?” the man asked.
“My fellow teachers and students,” said River.
Several cops opened car doors, and we heard excited barking. The K-9 unit. This seemed surreal, unbelievable. I still had no idea what was happening.
“How many people are here now?” The man consulted his clipboard again.
“Twelve of us live here,” said River. “And we have five guests.”
“Is everyone here outside?” The man looked at us, as if counting.
River turned around and also counted us. “Yes,” she said. “Everyone’s here. Can you tell me what’s going on, officer?”
“We received a phone call that you were holding people here against their will,” the man said brusquely. “Keeping hostages. The person reported at least one murder. Said the body was buried on the property.”
River looked positively stunned—she almost swayed, and Asher stepped close and took her arm. “What? Who reported that? That’s ridiculous!”
“I’m sorry, but we have to search the place,” the man said, not sounding sorry.
River sat down on the bottom step of the porch, almost as if she could no longer stand up. Three different K-9 units set off; one inside the house, one into the side yard, and one headed toward the back, where the barns were.
The rest of us sat down, too, and a judge would have been hard-pressed to award the “most shocked expression” trophy.
“This is ridiculous,” I said, echoing River’s words. “Who would say something that absurd?”
“I don’t know.” River had grabbed a shawl, and now she wrapped it more tightly around her shoulders. “But I guess if the police get any kind of tip like that, they’re duty bound to check it out. They couldn’t risk it being true and not following up on it.”
“If this is some local causing mischief, I want to know who,” Ottavio snapped.